Two Letters
by Seren Flaidd
Summary: Bored and miserable in Grimmauld Place, Sirius finds a letter that a slightly adoring Remus wrote to him in 1979 and never sent. Sixteen traumatic years later he sits down to write Remus his response. **(This was an UNBELIEVABLY HARD to write Valentine's Day fic challenge. REMUS/SIRIUS with the prompts:apples, drunk Patronusing, an unexpected reaction to something, and cuddling.)


Dear Sirius.

Last Saturday we took a day off from war-work to go scrumping for apples.

We wanted to make cider.

And there was also nothing to eat in the house.

It was 'James logic' and James paid the farmer and bought lots of cider for everyone.

Obviously we needed cider.

Cider takes weeks to make from apples.

And gathering the apples is much more fun under the influence.

When we were walking slightly unsteadily home,

We were drunkenly trying to cast patronuses - or should that be patroni?

I'm not actually sure.

James produced a largely legless and entirely prongless 'Prongs'.

And Peter made an amorphus blob which he claimed was his corperal patronus - 'the apple'.

So funny.

And you kissed him.

Peter Pettirgrew.

You pulled him over and you kissed him on the cheek.

Which caused an, I would say understandable, lull in the hillarity.

Funny though the 'apple patronus' idea was (and rare as it is for Peter's sparkling wit to overshadow your own), I strongly suspect that 'a kiss' was not the reaction he, nor any of us, expected from you.

James choked.

In fairness to James he managed to hold off breathing for quite a while, presumably waiting for a plausible explanation?

James asphyxiating on a chunk of apple was impressive enough to detract from your kissing of Peter, but it did not escape notice that you'd done that, Sirius.

On Sunday evening, entirely sober, you kissed James' cheek, when he returned wet-haired from the bathroom.

I think the fact that it was night-time and that he was half-naked made it seem more than kissing Peter the day before.

If I'm honest, it made me feel slightly strange.

On the plus side, it seemed to make James feel a lot stranger.

He thumped you solidly, on the arm and warned you to pack it in.

I found my fists clenched, purposelessly, around the half eaten apple in my hand and I don't really know why.

No.

Actually, I _do_ know why.

I just think it's a bit foolish, that's all.

You see, I feel rather possessive of you sometimes.

I know that that's ludicrous on so many levels. A werewolf demanding any recourse over the actions of your highborn and much adored self. I know that's laughable, although in my defence you have gone to great lengths to fall from grace and to count yourself as no better than anyone. Even than me.

So, maybe it is all your fault?

But it's not.

What it is, is that you are brilliant and confident, funny, clever, energetic, brave and impossibly loyal.

That's enough about how great you are though. Your ego is inflated enough.

(Did you spot my inclusion of 'energetic', in your list of talents?)

I still want to know why Albus thinks you are so energetic and also why he prizes it so highly!

No, seriously, I really do want to know.

Anyway. What I meant was that it's foolish of me to feel I have any opinion on how you behave, because you are really a very important person.

That's easy to forget when you're cuddling against people post apple gathering.

(I chose to read this as 'doglike behaviour' rather than 'inappropriate'?)

It's easy to forget, when you are lounging against people, while they are trying very hard to put together quite complex brewing equipment.

It's easy to forget when you are spreading orchard mud on peoples nice clean beds and laughing stupidly when three angry people aren't physically enough to drag you off.

That can be confusing, you see?

Also, you can not blame every action that you don't want to take responsibility for on your personal madness or your parents inbreeding. You can not laugh off kissing other boys.

And yet, I think you have.

I don't think James and Peter have thought about it since.

But it's not normal.

You don't kiss me, Sirius.

You don't kiss me.

Not that that is a request, obviously.

It's just that you and me, we are different, because you are you and I am I.

I mean,

What my affliction is, it strips me of my humanity, Sirius.

I am disabled by my lycanthrope. I am disliked for it.

I have to deceive others on account of it and every month it takes my last vestige of dignity.

It leaves me an emasculated and pathetic naked man, sweat-soaked, disgusting, humiliatingly unable to lift myself off the ground where I have spent many hours trying to mutilate myself in rage induced fits, because I can find no other person to infect or murder.

I am repulsive.

And you, you don't see that.

I see it.

James sees all of it. I have so much gratitude to him that he clearly does have genuine pity and compassion.

I love him for that.

And Peter the same.

But not you.

A dog. God's basest creature, pressed into my aching side, licking wounds that human you could easily heal.

You don't.

You choose to lie against me, whining _your_ distress at _my_ pain, deluded into believing that the greatest thing you can offer me (greater than magic or medicine) is your physical presence.

You don't seem to understand that I am the vile monster as well as it's victim.

Or you don't care.

I think you don't care.

I think you love me.

It feels like absolute hubris to say that.

But you see, your love is as fierce and shameless as you are.

I am forced to find it undeniable.

You actually love me.

Irrationally, definitely, but unquestionably.

You love me.

Like you love James and Peter.

What insanity must their be in your parents that they have allowed themselves to loose that love?

Because you are beautiful, Sirius.

Obviously I am not talking about your physical beauty.

I mean your soul, your strange canine soul.

And I love you.

That that goes without saying, doesn't it, that I love you so much.

Who wouldn't? Who doesn't?

I love you so much and when it comes down to it, Sirius, I personally find myself rather unlovable.

You claim to be unlovable.

The fact that your mother doesn't love you, does not make you unlovable, Sirius.

It makes her insane.

I hope the sheer weight of numbers proves it to you anyway, because _everyone _who meets you loves you, because you are so lovable.

But I am not.

What I am, that is not remotely loveable. The only reason you can love me is because you have no moral judgement whatsoever.

That may be your one failing, Sirius?

I don't know. I just know I am so very grateful for it, because you don't care that I am cursed and inhuman.

You still love me.

I don't think anyone else could, or will, or does.

And so, just like everyone else, I want you. I want you and I am greedy for your love.

Maybe I am more greedy because I am less worthy than anyone.

But anyway, let me try and get back to the reason I was writing.

You kissed Peter on Saturday, on the way back from gathering apples.

You kissed James on Sunday, which resulted in him punching you.

I wouldn't have punched you.

But you haven't kissed me.

Not on Monday, or Tuesday.

Or Wednesday, Thursday or Friday.

Have you set yourself some bordom-induced challenge to kiss us all?

Because you haven't kissed me.

Not, of course, that I'm asking you to.

I am just wondering if you don't want to.

And in all immodesty, I don't really think it is that, because it's always me that you are in contact with, physically in contact with, I mean.

As Snuffles you cuddle against me, when I am ill. When I am bedridden, you choose to be bedridden too, with books and chatter and a constant physical presence that warms my soul as much as my body.

When I'm down you're a clown and when I get mad, you're always around.

Sorry, that is actually just a line from a song that's on the radio right now.

Although it is also perfectly true.

Admittedly I don't often get mad, unless we are using the 'full-moon madness' sense of the word. In that case this is also perfectly true, you are always around when I am actually mad, as you are whenever I need you.

You are always around.

And I have got you.

I don't know why or how I have been so blessed to have you but I am ashamed to admit that I am finding it hard to let you go.

That is truly horrible of me, because I have nothing to look forward to in my life, while your life could and should be rich and wonderful, filled with love, with an adoring wife, a family who loves you and appreciates you. A real home full of happiness. These are things which I know with all my heart that you deserve.

You are handsome and funny and clever.

But not perfect.

You can be a right bastard as well.

And it is actually slightly sickening just how handsome and clever you are.

It makes me wish something really horrible would happen to you, Sirius.

No.

It doesn't really.

I promise.

Or only a little bit and only when you're being exceptionally obnoxious.

Mostly I am just ashamed of how much I want to hold onto you.

That is my confession, Sirius,

**I want to hold you back.**

I want to keep you here with me, because I love you and I don't want you to go away.

That is what I needed to say.

I also need to ask whether you have set yourself some sort of dare to kiss all the Marauders?

It just sounds like something you'd do.

If I'm correct, you are going to try to randomly kiss me. Today.

But not on Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday?

Is it 'not on weekdays'?

Or are you kissing other people on weekdays?

People I don't know about, while you're liaising with Order members?

I don't know.

It could be that you've given yourself some sort of weekend clause?

Well. It's Saturday again now and you are here with James, Peter and me.

Just us.

All day.

And you have already kissed James and Peter.

Part of me actually hopes that you _have_ bored yourself enough lately to start kissing people's cheeks, as a random way to amuse yourself.

The fact that I felt like this made me take stock of myself.

To sum up, Sirius:

Firstly,

_Are_ you randomly kissing men, or Marauders, on a nineteen four hourly cycle, just to see if you can pass that off as 'normal friendly interaction'?

Secondly,

Wondering if you are doing this has brought to my attention that I am shamefully jealous of even your casually planted lips upon the cheeks of two of our mutual friends.

I am acknowledge this, here and in writing, as unhealthy.

You are lovely and I have been absolutely blessed to have your friendship.

I have so little that I value.

I have so little at all. I think that is why I am being a bit rubbish at letting you- the wonderous, handsome, brilliant, occasionally wealthy, always hillarious and quite completely lovely Black heir - interact with other people.

Any people at all, apparently.

Even to the point of very innocent pecks on the cheeks, of two people who I consider to be our closest and most loved friends.

And if you think that's rubbish of me, can you imagine what I'll be like when you get a serious girlfriend?

Actually, that makes me feel slightly (maybe more than slightly) aware that I am a very messed up person.

We both knew that already, didn't we?

Thank God you are a bit messed up too.

Maybe you can laugh this off?

You are good at laughing things off, Sirius, and I swear, I really do swear,

**I will make a concerted effort to pull myself together and not to be this unpleasant possessive person, around you.**

I am better than that.

In regards to the kissing of mens cheeks, I will kiss _your_ cheek.

I am reasonably certain that you _have _set yourself some stupid challenge.

(speaking as someone who knows you horribly well)

And knowing you, being kissed first will count as a defeat, won't it?

I can do that, Sirius.

Could I do that?

Can I kiss you?

Oh yes, actually I can.

They didn't put me in Grffindor for nothing, you know.

~o0o~

* * *

Grimmauld Place,

Islington,

LY11 2SL

4th of June, 1995

My Dear Remus,

This is formal, isn't it?

Although I feel that this is the ideal time to mention how annoying it is, when people omit the date from their letters.

Speaking of letters, I have just read one that you clearly 'forgot' to send to me at least one lifetime ago.

Unless you are still getting up the nerve to tie it to an owl?

So many things, Moony.

So very many things.

Firstly,

It's lucky that I can date your letter to '79 by memory, because you sound like a ten year old and your handwriting suggests the same. You are so lucky that you didn't have a private tutor. Your knucles would have been permenantly red raw.

I was actually having such a laugh at your expense.

Having finished reading your angsty and very amusing letter, I find myself again stuck in this miserable prison of a house, all alone and hating you for not being here.

So, to clarify for you...

(with brackets - brackets, dashes and clarification as you do, Moony)

In 1979 (I am not sure of the dates because you didn't use them) you were correct in your assumption that I kissed James and Peter (the little shit) out of a bordom and a lack of entertainment in my life.

'79 was the year my father, who hated me, died.

It was also the year that my little brother, who didn't really hate me that much, died as well.

And my Uncle Cygnus, who was so-so about me and I about him. He too died.

And many of our good friends.

They died as well.

My bestfriend was also ignoring me in favour of his pregnant and irritatingly possesive wife (don't speak ill of the dead etc, I know, Moony, I know).

(but even you can't deny she was rather sow-like in the late stages of pregnancy)

Do I mean in personality or in looks?

Both I suppose.

'79 - We, were also all heavily involved in a war. You remember the war, right, Moony?

It was that terrible civil war in which my relatives (almost to a soul) really and genuinely wanted to torture and kill me and everyone I loved.

And the people who I was fighting alongside and for, ready to die for if needed, they didn't trust me as far as they could hex me.

But putting all that aside, I suppose it was a pleasant enough year.

It's just hard to put that much shit aside.

And as you so thoughtfully mentioned, despite not joining the lemmings of the family and dying in 1979, my mother did continued to staunchly hate me.

I am not loveable, Remus.

Not in any way.

Nor have I ever been.

Not in any way.

No matter how you look at it.

When your own mother hates you, that really is a pretty solid litmus test of how lovable you are.

Who has ever loved me, Remus?

There was James.

I don't think even you can count Peter, can you.

No.

People were nice to me because they wanted to shag me or to use me.

I always pegged you, maybe opptomistically? as being in the former camp.

But your angsty letter suggests so much _more._

Oh Moony, how very sweet you were at nineteen!

Why did you have to get so depressing and pessimistic? Can't you come and worship the ground that I walk on, for a little bit longer?

I would really appreciate that now.

You claimed that it was my 'beautiful soul' rather than my smashing goodlooks that your nineteen year old self found so delightful.

(although I am marginally hurt that you didn't even try to suggest that I possess a 'beautiful personality')

My beautiful soul though, it is vastly more messed up than my face.

I am going out of my mind, sitting in this bloody house, listening to the pipes cooling and the beams creaking.

If that even is what those noises are.

I am so pathetic that I sicken myself.

I am so scared.

Not of the shitty house and being alone here.

God, I hate being alone.

I am like a pathetic dog. I am sick, just from being here all on my own.

You are probably dead already, aren't you?

I'll probably never get to give you this or get to tell you that I read your funny embarrassing letter and laughed so hard at you.

Harry is going to die.

That's just a matter of time.

Why does everybody I love have to be targeted for death?

Why can't you stay here with me, instead of going out on stupid missions for that piss-stinking old man?

Hide Harry, Remus, and don't let him die. I just really don't want him to die.

Shit.

Sorry, Moony.

Right.

Your hillarious letter.

I have just re-read it and as a result I already feel so much better!

Because, oh my dear God, Remus. What was your brain even doing in '79?

You are such an idiot!

Right.

Anyway.

Yes.

For the record, yes! Yes, I did kiss both James and that little shit, Peter, very much on purpose.

You were absolutely right that I kissed other people on Monday, Tuesday and those other weekdays.

(unlike you, I shall contain my enthusiasm for them and not insist on writing them out individually)

Oh, go on then, I will.

On Monday, I kissed Kingsley.

On Tuesday, I kissed Dung - which was an error although not in the way that you'd imagine. Dung is _so much more fun that you like to admit_, Moony.

(Just sharing that).

On Wednesday and Thursday I kissed boring people and I can't even remember which way around they even were, but it was Frank and Stubby.

On Friday I kissed Kingsley again and technically (if you are concerned about the favouritism that this suggests) that was more 'being kissed' than kissing but I had to kiss him back or I would (as you correctly realised) have lost the game.

On Friday I didn't get into the house until after midnight. So technically, I _had _already kissed someone on Saturday.

(It was just very early on Saturday and I'm not going tell you who it was because I know you'd still be angry, fifteen years after the fact.)

I suppose you know who I mean now, anyway, just because you know it would make you angrier than me kissing Dung or 'double kissing' Kingsley.

Oh well.

Sorry about that.

Anyway, I was going to kiss you on Sunday, Moony.

It wasn't that I was 'saving you till last', although that would have been rather humourous.

No.

The whole game was about kissing you.

How stupid you were not to have realised that.

I will admit, I slightly needed to see what sort of reaction kissing was going to get, (forewarned and forearmed, Moony) hence the order of experimentation.

(Also, I needed the evidence that it was just a game, in case you were excessively annoyed about me kissing you.)

Which you weren't.

Because you kissed me first.

And not on the cheek.

Or maybe on the cheek initially?

Either way, it was lovely, as I'm sure I don't need me to clarify.

I could clarify but doing so would reduce this letter to the pathetic sappy state of your own youthful corespondence.

Does it even counts as correspondence, when you hadn't the balls to send it?

Oh to be nineteen again! With everyone dying and/or hating me and you spending all your free time being a shameless pervert over me.

I can't believe you didn't give me that letter.

My ego likes things like that, Remus.

Unless you thought I would be unamused by you kissing me for a dare, just because you wanted to mess up a game you thought I might possibly be playing in my own head?

That is so shit of you, Remus.

That is not impressive.

I can't tell you how unbelievable impressive that kiss actually came across as, at the time.

I think it was because of the lack of preamble.

I was quietly nursing a hangover, and a very lovely mug of sugary tea, and you walked into the room and just kissed me.

No preamble.

Without dinner and a date.

Or even a good chat-up line.

You kissed me.

I can still remember what it felt like.

Asphyxiating on chunks of apple.

No, that isn't what it felt like.

I was going to say, asphyxiating on chunks of apple and blind drunk on our lethal homebrewed cider, I could still have cast a patronus strong enough to rid Azkaban of dementors, just by thinking about that moment.

That's what it felt like.

Not actually like 'asphyxiating on chunks of apple'.

(That would have suggested very poor technique.)

It was because it was so unexpected, Remus.

And because I loved you so much.

I loved you.

Weren't we angsty and stupid at nineteen?

I loved you so much.

Anyway,

I understand what you were trying to say, back then, when you said that you wanted to 'hold me back' and keep me for yourself.

(Although 'hold me' would have been so much more romantic.)

Also how very handsome and stupendous you found me.

(You were in a minority with that opinion but at least you were apparently oblivious to that fact).

And I really was that great.

(Everyone else was jealous or overly sensitive.)

The reason I understand now is because there is nothing beautiful about me anymore.

I am not talking about my face.

(Technically I am talking about my face, but as well as my mind, body and soul.)

I am broken and pathetic, yet ironically I'm not quite damaged enough to be oblivious to how useless and pathetic I actually am.

You are the beautiful one, Remus.

(As of course you actually always were.)

You are the reprieve from the darkness that I sit here in, waiting uneasily for your return.

I want to be Snuffles, because that is all that I can manage.

I want to pace this worn carpets and fling myself against you, shamelessly and stupidly, when you return.

Alive.

Please return alive.

Please be alive.

I want to keep you and sleep against you, and cry shamelessly when you try to leave me.

Because I love you and you are all that I have.

I hope that's clear enough.

So, I have copied the sentiments from the letter you wrote to me, all those years ago.

I have copied it word for word, because sometimes just being loved by someone decent is enough to make the most base and unworthy of us become a little less selfish.

Your words, Remus,

(although in my infinitely more legible handwriting),

_**"I have nothing to look forward to in my life, while your life could and should be rich and wonderful, filled with love, with an adoring wife, a family who loves you and appreciates you. A real home full of happiness. These are things which I know with all my heart that you deserve."**_

That is all really that I have left to say to you.

This letter doesn't end how I originally intended.

It ends of course with my love.

As always, it ends with my most sincere and best wishes, but those wishes are not just for you, Remus. They are for both you and for my cousin, Tonks.

Please embrace that. You deserve to be loved, Remus, and to grow old with someone nice, with a family of annoying bratty children, with a home, and with that elusive happiness that you so truly and totally deserve.

Sirius.

**AN: This story was written for the Teachers' Lounge 2014 Valentines Promptfest. Please leave a review, and check out the other stories, which are listed at topic/119413/104638777/1/2014-Valentines-s-Promptfest-story-list**


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